Rite of Passage
by Amberry
Summary: Lucius treks into his dungeons to do something he never believed that he would be capable of doing.


There was no other word to describe Lucius' mood but pissed. He had been tormented far too many times by the likes of these people and it was getting to him. So now, he was growing desperate for release. For a kind of relief he knew, but never dared allow himself. Yet now. now he would, he had to. And there was very little that would give him this relief that he so required.  
  
His strides were purposeful as he made his way down the winding staircase, ever lower in his own home. He had made this trip so many times yet it seemed different now. Now that there was a purpose to it. A purpose that was chilling yet heated him to the very core all the same. This was ever so unlike him. To give in to temptation. To allow his urges to control his actions. Yet they had been driving him too long. His work was starting to be affected and this would not do. It would never do to show weakness, to show that he, too, was tempted, needed. No, he would get it out of his system now. Others need never know of this evening.  
  
He shivered as a wave of cold hit him upon entering the dungeons. His dungeons, no one else's. Yet they did not seem as familiar as they always did to him. The place seemed foreign, aware of his intentions. It was as if even his own home knew he was giving in to weakness. He was tempted to simply flee then and there. However, to flee would be to show greater weakness than to give in to this desire. No, he would not leave now that he was here. He drew in a slow, deep breath, and then approached the figure that was laid out upon one of his tables.  
  
The figure was still aside from the rise and fall of his chest, drawing in slow, even breaths. He could practically hear the boy's heartbeat from where he lay upon the table. Or, wait, was that his own? He was not so certain. It was no matter, really, as he approached. As he moved closer he gazed intently at the boy, drinking in the sight of him. He still wore his proper robes, still appeared dignified where he lay sleeping. Lucius could not help but wonder if he was even aware of his surroundings. Likely not, in the end. After all, who would expect to find themselves asleep upon a table in the Malfoy dungeons? No matter, the sight of the boy's breath being drawn away from his body in puffs of humidity was enough for Lucius to turn and move towards his work table.  
  
The sound of steel being unsheathed appeared to have been enough for the boy to awake. It was unsurprising, really. Any decent Slytherin would have a decent enough survival instinct to rise at such a sound. However, the boy simply seemed intent on only stretching out before huddling tight into his robes against the cold. A softly croaked, "Could you light a fire?" was more than enough to inform Lucius that the boy knew where he was and who he was with. That simple knowledge caused the man to draw forth his wand and utter a quick word. Before the boy knew what was happening, his voice ceased to work and he was rendered nearly entirely immobile. Merely for the sake that Lucius enjoyed watching them squirm, knowing that their body instinctively fought him even though they had no control over such movements. It was an empowering thought, knowing that they had no control, that their bodies fought them as much as they fought him. This one. this would be special.  
  
At last he turned to face the boy, noticing the terror in his eyes at finding his voice useless. The terror was only a fraction of what it became when a flash of metal caught his eye. His eyes were drawn downward to the long, slim blade in Lucius' hand. Somehow, he knew. Oh, yes, he knew what was coming. Fear rose in the boy's throat and Lucius could see it, reveled in it. He soaked in the fear like a sponge, drawing in a deep breath as if to bring it all into himself. That only terrified the boy further.  
  
Lucius couldn't help but question if the boy would even flee otherwise. After all, most would never dare defy him, even if it meant their own life was at stake. This one in particular knew his place, even as the glint of the blade drew ever closer. The blade lowered to pale, tantalizing flesh. Yet only a whimper came forth from the boy. No, he would not yet allow the cool metal to bite into the flesh just yet. He would tease, taunt, let him know what was coming. Lucius shivered as he listened to the sounds rise in the boy's throat, even as no words could properly form. It was such a delicious spell, such a delicious sound, such an utterly delicious boy.  
  
The first bite of steel drew forth a sharp intake of breath, as if attempting to drive the pain out of his body through the extra air taking its place. It truly was an exhilarating experience to watch the boy writhe and squirm. The second cut was deeper, drawing blood this time. The sweet, coppery substance rose to fill the wound and Lucius watched it intently. He marveled over the sight; the dark liquid that flowed through the veins of them both, spilling to fill the wound, to protect itself. Such an incredible thing the human body was. On that thought again the blade dipped, again drawing forth the deep red substance from within.  
  
By the time that Lucius was sated through this task, there was more blood than skin that was visible. It was a gruesome yet incredible sight. Pale flesh was covered with sticky red, progressively turning brown as the time passed. The boy was again back to whimpering, eyes widened at the sight of it all. The final strike of the bloodstained knife came in the form of a stab. His breath caught almost simultaneously compared to the young boy. Yet, as he gazed down, he knew he had gone too far. Much too far.  
  
As his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, a silent scream on his lips, he gazed at his son who was in a much similar condition. He knew Draco was fighting desperately to free himself, but was failing in that task. If he had had the breath left in him to do it, Lucius would have freed him. Yet it was too late. he could only hope that the boy's mother would eventually come down to find him, whimpering in terror while his eyes remained glued to the man on the floor.  
  
After all, how often did one get to watch a Malfoy kill himself? 


End file.
